


Better, Stronger

by Arbryna



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Legend of the Seeker
Genre: Clothed Sex, Episode Related, F/F, Feathers & Featherplay, One Shot, Porn Battle, Porn With Plot, Sex Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-13
Updated: 2012-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-31 01:57:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/338614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arbryna/pseuds/Arbryna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Warden rejected her offer on the eve of the great battle, Morrigan left the party, traversing the Frostback Mountains to get as far from Ferelden as possible. Now, she's found herself in the Midlands, where her path crosses with a rather strange group of people—including one very attractive woman in red leather. Takes place during "Torn", when Richard, Cara, and Emo!Kahlan are heading back to Aydindril to fix Kahlan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better, Stronger

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Porn Battle XIII](http://battle.oxoniensis.org/), prompts: _Cara/Morrigan, magic, common sense, feather, longing, better, strong_. (Yeah, I tried to do ALL of them. You can be the judge as to whether it worked or not...)
> 
> I've always been bitter that Morrigan isn't a romance option for a female character (because just...really? Why wouldn't she go for that? Also I may be a little bit in love with her >_>), so this fic assumes that Morrigan was indeed in a relationship with a female Grey Warden (in this case, for shallow plot-device reasons, the Dalish Elf origin, using the default name from the game), and had all sorts of scary fuzzy feelings. Also, this is the first time I've attempted Dragon Age fic, which means there's probably a lot more backstory/character analysis than is strictly necessary, particularly for porn.

Not for the first time today, Morrigan cursed the infernal curiosity that had led to this. If she had simply remained a wolf, she could have avoided this situation entirely. But no, she simply _had_ to take another look at her mother's grimoire—a feat not easily accomplished when she had paws in place of hands. She had just pulled her pack from the pocket of the Fade she always utilized when shifting when she was accosted by a group of fools who claimed to be acting under the authority of some "High Lord Regent".

It would have been a simple matter to dispose of them; a wave of her hand could have turned them into piles of ash, or crushed their insides into a boneless paste without ever breaking skin. She had in fact been deliberating over which method to use when this overgrown boy had burst onto the scene, waving his sword as though it were some extension of his manhood. 

As a matter of self-preservation, she had stood back, allowing him to make quick work of her would-be attackers. If this stranger wished to risk bodily injury to protect her, she saw no reason to stop him. He at least appeared to know what he was doing, which was more than she could ever have said for certain other gallant swordsmen she had had the displeasure of traveling with. To this day, she was still surprised that Alistair had known which side of his breastplate was the front. 

When he pulled his sword free of the last man and turned to her, looking every bit the image of the dashing hero from one of the bard's tales, it had been all too easy to fall back into the practiced pattern of playing the helpless woman. It worked, as it always did, and the man—Richard—had been in the process of inviting her to share a meal when his companions had caught up to him. Now the weepy brown-haired woman was arguing loudly and passionately with him while the blonde in red leather eyed her suspiciously, pointing a strange leather rod menacingly in her direction. Its high-pitched whine was indicative of some form of magic, though one Morrigan was unfamiliar with. She had never put much stock in enchanted weapons; if one was not born with an affinity for magic, one was simply not meant to use it.

Were she back in the Korcari Wilds, Morrigan would not have hesitated to kill them all simply for the offense of encroaching on her territory; Flemeth had taught her a great deal about the protection of one's home. But Flemeth was dead, at least for the moment, and this was not her home. 

She was uncertain where she was, to tell the truth of it. When she had finally made it across the Frostback Mountains, she had descended into a land very unlike Ferelden. Oh, the landscape was similar, forests and plains and towns packed with far too many people to be comfortable, but there were no darkspawn in sight, no templars marching proudly in their gleaming armor, and from what little she had been able to observe, no sign of dwarves, elves, or anything other than humans. 

It was a relief, in more ways than Morrigan cared to admit even to herself. She told herself it was simply due to being finally free of the Chantry's oppression, but it was difficult to avoid the obvious conclusion: with no elves around, there was less to remind her of her ill-advised dalliance with that fool Grey Warden—not that she could ever truly forget. 

On the surface, Lyna had been an ideal companion. Born to the Dalish elves, she embraced a love of nature that Morrigan easily shared, and while she was not a mage herself, Lyna showed a great deal of interest in the craft. They had spent many nights at camp apart from the rest of the ever-growing group, sitting by Morrigan's fire and discussing the intricacies of magic; Morrigan's exceptionally personal knowledge of wildlife was invaluable in developing Lyna's talent for calling animals to aid them in battle. 

The mistake had been in thinking the elf would share her casual attitude toward sexual intimacy. Morrigan had of course heard stories of romantic love, and had a working knowledge of how such a thing might manifest, but she had never expected to be the target of it. She certainly never imagined that she would find herself returning such a crippling sentiment. But over time, she had stopped insisting that Lyna leave her tent the moment they were finished; she even found that she enjoyed the elf's persistent displays of affection for their intent, not just the way they never failed to provoke catty comments from Alistair (although that remained immensely satisfying). 

When Lyna would lie curled up against her at night—something she allowed only because common sense dictated that two bodies were warmer than one—and talk of future plans, of what they could do, together, once the Blight was stopped, Morrigan found herself doing something she hadn't done since she was a child: wishing. She had wished that circumstances were different, that she didn't have to lie about her motivations, that there were some way to both save Lyna's life and stay with her afterward.

It was foolish. She had told Lyna as much, tried to put an end to the relationship before it made them both dangerously weak, but it had been no use. Lyna had persisted, and truthfully, Morrigan had lost the battle before she had even begun to fight. 

Which made it all the more difficult when Lyna flat-out rejected her suggestion of a ritual that would allow the archdemon to be defeated without killing either Grey Warden. Even now, Morrigan was unsure whether it hurt more that Lyna had refused to consider it, or that she had looked at Morrigan with such betrayal in her eyes, as though Morrigan had been manipulating her the whole time. 

If she had been less upset, Morrigan might have thought to go to Alistair behind Lyna's back—he was a man, after all, despite how entertaining it was to call his sex into question, and she had never had trouble seducing a man into her bed even without pressing, life-or-death justification for it. As it was, she had barely had the presence of mind to summon the magical energies required to shift into wolf form and run, as fast and as far as possible.

By now, Lyna was most likely dead. With Alistair set to become king, she would almost certainly have insisted on being the one to sacrifice herself to end the Blight. Morrigan would have known for certain if Lyna had not thrown her ring back at her during their last angry confrontation; now the small band of rosewood was buried deep in her pack, beneath a gold-framed hand mirror that she hadn't worked up the nerve to look into since she left Redcliffe. The ring was powerless with no one to wear it, but it mattered little; dead or alive, she knew that Lyna was lost to her.

And Morrigan was here, in this foreign land far from home, held hostage at the end of a magical weapon the likes of which she had never seen before, with a rather ferocious set of green eyes tracking her every movement. She considered simply shifting back into wolf form and leaving, but there was something in the way those eyes raked over her body that intrigued her: suspicious, yet hungry as well. It had been too long since the last time she had let Lyna touch her, and the need for haste in her journey had precluded finding a suitable stranger to satisfy her baser urges.

Folding her hands behind her back, Morrigan let out a soft, calculated sigh as she leaned back against the tree behind her. The movement pushed her breasts forward in a manner that had never failed to incite lust; the blonde woman simply raised an eyebrow, her full red lips curling into a hint of a smirk. Her weapon remained steady, but her pupils dilated ever so slightly, just enough to be noticeable. Morrigan kept her own expression open and guileless, expertly concealing her satisfaction at her success.

A shrill, whining voice distracted Morrigan from her attempts at seduction. The argument between Richard and the brown-haired woman Morrigan assumed was his lover was becoming simultaneously more heated and more pathetic. "Why don't you just admit it, Richard?" Tears were streaming freely down the woman's face, and Morrigan was fairly certain that it was the most pitiful sight she had ever had the misfortune to bear witness to. "You don't want me. If it's not Cara, then it's this—this _Morrigan_ , or whatever woman happens to cross your path next. Just—just say it. It's me. I wasn't good enough."

For his part, Richard seemed to be handling it remarkably well. Morrigan supposed he must be used to it by now, although what could possibly be reason enough to put up with such nonsense at all, let alone on a long-term basis, was beyond the capabilities of her imagination. 

"Kahlan," Richard said sharply, his voice straining under the weight of his frustration. His hands were clamped on Kahlan's shoulders in an attempt to calm the irrational woman. He murmured something more in a low voice, likely some trite declaration of love and devotion; if she had any interest whatsoever, Morrigan could have discerned what he was saying, but she doubted there was any real substance to it. 

Instead, she turned back to the blonde—Cara, she assumed from Kahlan's wild gestures. Cara was looking increasingly uncomfortable the longer the argument went on, and with nothing better to do, Morrigan set about trying to decipher why. 

Pulling away from Kahlan, Richard strode over to address them. "Kahlan and I are going to take a walk," he said, his gaze darting nervously away from any possibility of eye contact. "Cara, stay with Morrigan. We don't know if this 'High Lord Regent' has more men around here or not."

Cara's eyes widened, and she tugged at Richard's elbow to pull him aside. Morrigan's lips twitched with the urge to smirk, but she contained it. Spending so much of one's time in the form of animals with far better hearing than that of a human had sharpened her senses, and while Kahlan—standing several paces away with her arms crossed petulantly over her chest as she sniffled—certainly could not hear what the two were discussing, it was no challenge for Morrigan.

"Richard," Cara hissed, "as much as I hate to agree with—" she hesitated, shooting a wary glance in Kahlan's direction before forcing out her next word, "— _Kahlan_ , she's right. You can't trust this woman." 

"You don't trust anyone, Cara," Richard said with a tense chuckle. 

An exasperated sigh passed Cara's lips as she peered over Richard's shoulder, her eyes narrowing as they met Morrigan's briefly before flicking back to his. "She has magic," she said, lowering her voice even further until even Morrigan had trouble making out the words. "She may not have used it yet, but I can feel it."

How interesting. Cara certainly did not look like any templar Morrigan had ever seen, and had not yet attempted to drain her of mana; she must possess some other talent, one that Morrigan was unfamiliar with. 

"You're a Mord-Sith," Richard pointed out, glancing nervously back at Kahlan. "I'm sure you can manage for a few minutes."

"Your last walk took a bit longer than that," Cara replied icily, canting her hips and crossing her arms over her chest. "Are you losing your touch, Lord Rahl?" 

Oh, and there it was. Morrigan nearly laughed aloud at how obvious it was; the bitter edge in Cara's tone, just barely audible; the way her eyes flicked to Kahlan, briefly flashing with longing and guilt and shame. It took all of Morrigan's practiced composure to remain passive. 

Richard ran his hands up his face, through his shaggy hair, before dropping them at his sides with an aggrieved sigh. "Just stay here, and don't hurt her unless she attacks you first." 

With that, he turned on his heel, gathering Kahlan in his arms as he led her off into the trees. Morrigan turned her focus back to her earlier task; it appeared that Cara could use the distraction every bit as much as she, and it was obvious even without the blonde's sarcastic dig that Richard and Kahlan were most certainly going to be doing more than _walking_. It was only sensible to make the most of what promised to be a considerable amount of time alone with this woman.

As soon as Richard was out of sight, Cara shifted her attention back to Morrigan, her jaw clenched tightly as she raised her weapon once more. Her gaze had not lost that hungry glint, and briefly Morrigan ventured to imagine herself through the blonde's eyes. She did not often get the chance to gaze upon her reflection, but she knew well enough the sight that greeted Cara: her dark hair was pinned up in a functional knot at the back of her head, errant strands escaping to fall into golden eyes dark with a glimmer of interest. Her garments, carefully chosen long ago to meet the barest requirements of so-called civilized society, revealed far more than they covered; her leather skirt and leggings usually received little notice, instead serving to divert attention to the deep red material draped precariously over her chest, exposing the generous curves of her breasts. Flemeth had always taught her to be familiar with her own assets, and to use them to her advantage. Cara's eyes fixated exactly where they were supposed to, and Morrigan fought to suppress the smug smile that tugged at her lips.

"You can drop the act," Cara said brusquely, tilting her head as she forced her gaze back up to meet Morrigan's. "Richard's the only one foolish enough to fall for it."

Morrigan chuckled, allowing her smirk to break free. She had known this woman would be difficult to deceive. "He is rather hopelessly gullible and softhearted," she remarked dryly, sliding her arms out from behind her to cross under her breasts. "I once knew someone very like him."

Cara quirked an eyebrow, her gaze flicking briefly down to Morrigan's carefully displayed cleavage before she forced it back up. "An old flame?"

"Hardly," Morrigan scoffed, fighting a wave of nausea at the very idea. "'Twas a relief to be finally rid of him, to tell the truth, along with the rest of his motley group of companions." 

"And how exactly did you get rid of these companions?" Cara's eyes narrowed again, her weapon humming in the space between them. 

"Oh, 'twas nothing so sinister as what you are thinking," Morrigan said dismissively. "I offered a solution to a pressing dilemma. They refused, and I took my leave of them." If there was a tiny hint of wistful regret in her voice, it was purely by accident. She would not think of Lyna now. "I have little doubt they were able to save the world without me, though I imagine it was with far less efficiency." 

For the first time since Morrigan met her, Cara cracked a small, wry smile. "The most practical option never seems to be heroic enough," she said with a roll of her eyes.

A beat passed in silence as Morrigan considered the woman before her. Cara had not lowered her weapon, but neither had she made any attempt to use it. After a moment's deliberation, Morrigan stepped forward, lifting a hand to cover Cara's own. Dull shocks of pain pulsed into her palm, and she was momentarily distracted by the feel of it. Fascinating; it would seem that the weapon's magic was highly specialized, bypassing the usual element-based enchantments to deliver only the purest of painful sensations, to both the target and the wielder. Cara raised an eyebrow, looking almost impressed that she had not flinched away. Instead, Morrigan applied firm pressure to the leather-clad appendage, pushing it aside so that she could step into Cara's personal space.

"Idle conversation has never been a strong point of mine, so allow me to cut to the chase," Morrigan said, trailing the fingers of her free hand down the plunging neckline of Cara's leathers. "Your friends are no doubt going to be absent for a good deal of time. You and I can either stand here glaring suspiciously at one another until they return, or we can find a more pleasurable way to pass the time."

Cara's eyes widened; she did not look offended by the idea so much as surprised that Morrigan had been the one to suggest it. The hand not clutching her weapon came up to clamp around Morrigan's wrist, halting its seductive exploration. "Why?" Cara asked, the suspicion in her tone tinged with interest and arousal. 

"'Tis only sensible," Morrigan said with a shrug, pressing her palm flush against the golden skin of Cara's chest. "I can see that you clearly find me desirable, and I am certain it comes as no surprise that I have a similar opinion of you. From what I have been able to gather, you are unattached, as am I. Is there a particular reason we should not indulge our baser desires?"

"When you put it that way," Cara said in a low voice, slipping her weapon back into its sheath at her side, "how can I say no?"

The smirk on Cara's lips melted away as she reached for Morrigan's hips, tugging her close as she dipped her head. Her intent was clear, and Morrigan turned at the last moment so that Cara's lips landed on her jaw. She had no interest in sentimental things like kissing and cuddling; such actions would be far too reminiscent of things that were best left in the past.

Fortunately, Cara seemed to get the hint, and lowered her mouth to Morrigan's neck instead. It was refreshing, the rough, demanding way she sucked at the tender skin, the sharp bite of her fingers at Morrigan's hips. Morrigan allowed herself to enjoy it for a time before she pushed Cara away from her.

"I imagine you are accustomed to taking your pleasure, rather than accepting it as freely given," Morrigan said, her voice growing husky with the arousal heating her blood. "'Tis something I can relate to, but you shall have to suppress your urge to dominate me; it cannot be done."

Cara smirked, her eyes flashing in challenge. "We'll see about that." 

Before Cara could surge forward again, Morrigan held up a hand to stop her in her tracks. "I can assure you I will make it well worth your while," she said with a sultry smirk, allowing a hot surge of magic to spark through her fingertips into Cara's skin.

The complete shock on Cara's face was something of a mystery to Morrigan. Cara knew she had magic, had told Richard as much; that it should surprise her that Morrigan was capable of using it for pleasure was baffling. The shock faded quickly, however, replaced by understanding and amusement. 

"If you insist," Cara said, dropping her hands to her sides. A knowing smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she raised an eyebrow. "Do your worst." 

"Oh, I shall do better than that," Morrigan purred, guiding Cara back against a tree. She leaned in close, murmuring softly into Cara's ear, "I shall do my very best." 

Morrigan smiled, hearing Cara's breath hitch as she pulled away to rake her eyes over the red leather hugging the blonde's curves like a second skin. The leathers presented a troublesome obstacle; Morrigan was certain that it would take far too long to remove them, and she was not a particularly patient person. Fortunately, she was also not bound by the constraints of the ungifted; she could easily make this woman come undone without loosening a single lace. 

Reaching up to her own shoulder, Morrigan plucked one of the feathers from the top of her sleeve. This would be easier—and far more interesting—with a focus for her magic, and these feathers were unique: they were Morrigan's own, shed on the rare occasions that she shifted to raven form, and retained a moderate amount of magical power as a result. 

Cara arched an eyebrow, looking skeptical about the ability of a feather to bring her pleasure. Morrigan would enjoy proving her wrong. She trailed it down Cara's neck, between her breasts, and while Cara shivered at the sensation of it, she did not look all that impressed. With a smirk, Morrigan slid the feather over the red leather and sent a jolt of magic through it and into a hardened nipple, earning a sharp gasp in response. 

She knew what Cara was feeling, as the feather drew lazy patterns over her breasts, down her ribs, across her abdomen—the hot, pulsing tendrils of magic burning into her skin through the leather. Morrigan was not being gentle; the sensation she was giving Cara was walking the line between pleasure and pain, but the blonde's reactions made Morrigan wonder if perhaps that line were already permanently blurred. 

A heavy gasp caught in Cara's throat, her hips jerking forward as Morrigan slid the feather along the crease of her thigh, brushing over the leather between her legs. The power in the feather was nearly depleted; Morrigan let it drop, replacing it with the firm press of her hand. The base of her palm ground against Cara's clit as she focused her magic, bypassing the leather and thrusting into Cara with nothing but pure power. 

Cara's moans of pleasure grew steadily louder, her hands coming up to clutch at Morrigan's shoulders as she met the increasingly insistent thrusts of magic. Morrigan admired the arch of Cara's throat, enjoying the way her face tightened as her release rapidly approached. When Cara came, Morrigan could see her lips trying to form a name, but Cara clenched her jaw and groaned instead. Morrigan was not fooled.

When Cara's eyes slid open again, they were alight with hunger and amusement; then, suddenly, Morrigan felt her own power rebound back into her, flooding her body with pleasure. It was more than enough to distract her, and she quickly found herself on her back. Cara straddled her on the forest floor, tugging off a glove one finger at a time. 

"You really don't know what a Mord-Sith is, do you?" Cara's arrogant smirk was back in full force, and Morrigan had to admit it was a rather attractive look on her. 

Still, it was not a question that required an answer, and while Morrigan was certainly curious about the nature of the blonde's power, she was far more interested in the firm thigh nestled between her legs, and the newly-bared hand sliding down under the fabric of her top. Rather than make an attempt at conversation, Morrigan simply arched up, grinding against Cara's leg while her hands slid up to grasp leather-clad hips. 

Cara smirked and shook her head, snatching the hands away and pressing them firmly into the dirt above Morrigan's head. Her breasts pushed into Morrigan's as she leaned down, roughly claiming Morrigan's mouth with lips and teeth and tongue. 

Morrigan needn't have worried; this was nothing like the soft, languid kisses of her former lover. It was better, she thought as Cara's hand tugged up her skirt, snaking its way into her undergarments with a skill surely derived from practice. Cara pulled back from the kiss, watching her, cataloguing her every response, but the appreciation in her eyes was purely lustful; this woman offered only pleasure, nothing more. Cara would not ask things of her that she was not prepared to give.

That was the last coherent thought she was capable of before Cara's fingers slid into her. Cara did not trouble herself with trying to prepare Morrigan, to coax her body into welcoming the intrusion; she did not _give_ Morrigan pleasure so much as she demanded it from her. It was perfect, and exactly what Morrigan needed. She arched and whimpered and met Cara's thrusts, abandoning herself to the simple, carnal indulgence of sex. 

Her climax came upon her swiftly, filling her body with a tingling, pulsing heat, and then Morrigan was crying out, her head digging back into the fallen leaves as her hips jerked into Cara's hand. When she finally collapsed back onto the ground, chest heaving and sex throbbing, Cara's expression was once again smug and unflappable, pink tongue slipping out to moisten her lips as she caught her breath. Morrigan felt a renewed surge of arousal at the sight, and was very nearly ready to pull Cara back down for another round when the distant sound of leaves crunching underfoot reached her ears.

Cara cocked her head to the side, listening briefly as the footsteps grew closer; then she hastily slid her fingers free, reaching for her discarded glove and pushing herself to her feet as she tugged it back on. Morrigan wanted to protest, but Cara's reactions were indication enough that their time had expired. 

It was a shame, really, that she could not risk sticking around for a repeat performance. This had made her feel good—strong. Lyna's overly gracious lovemaking had always made her feel weak and soft, as though she had torn herself open and laid herself bare. There had been a small part of her—that had been growing steadily and dangerously larger—that had reveled in sharing so much of herself, but she had been down that path, seen where it ended, and had no desire to tread that ground again. Allowing herself to become close with anyone, even in a strictly sexual relationship, was something she simply could not afford to do. 

So while Cara busied herself making it look as though nothing had happened, Morrigan retrieved her pack from where it rested at the base of a nearby tree. By the time Richard and Kahlan came into view, Morrigan was perched high in its branches, shaking out her wings to adjust her feathers. 

Richard had his arm looped around Kahlan's waist, and he walked in a loose-limbed fashion that Morrigan well recognized. The sated smile on his lips fell a little as he looked around. "Where's Morrigan?"

Cara's eyes widened, and she looked around, anger flashing across her face as she realized that Morrigan was nowhere in sight. Naturally, she did not think to look for a raven resting comfortably above their heads, watching with more interest than a wild animal should. If birds were capable of facial expressions, Morrigan would have smirked at the bewildered frustration on the blonde's face. 

"I told you she had magic," Cara grumbled, pacing around the small clearing, looking for signs of where Morrigan could have gone. 

"Well, I'm sure she can take care of herself," Kahlan said, scarcely able to contain her pleasure at being rid of what she assuredly saw as a rival for her man's affections. She leaned into Richard, nuzzling his shoulder happily.

Cara made an absent-minded sound of agreement, stopping to examine a bush. Morrigan saw what had caught her eye: the feather she had discarded earlier had caught on its branches. Cara knelt and plucked it free, rising back up as she pondered it with an inscrutable expression. "I'm sure she can," she murmured. 

As she took wing and flew away from the bewildered adventurers, Morrigan thought to herself that perhaps her curiosity had not been such a terrible thing after all.

_end._


End file.
